


A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Physical Abuse, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Dean knew Sam would grow up someday, but this wasn't how he envisioned it.
Relationships: Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer
Series: We Three Kings [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Kudos: 12





	A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree

_A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree —  
Another — on the Roof —  
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves —  
And made the Gables laugh —_

_A few went out to help the Brook_ _—_  
_That went to help the Sea —  
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls —  
What Necklace could be —_

Emily Dickinson

*

  
Summers were better for John: he was livelier, happier, stuck to light summer brews and avoided the bars. He took the boys out for pizza and blockbusters, drove them out into the country for ice cream and tag football.  
  
Summers were better for John, so they were grand for Sam and Dean.

Dean had turned fifteen in January, and spent almost every free moment he had at the Singer’s Salvage Yard. Bobby had approached John earlier that year saying he could use a hand, and John had been surprisingly agreeable to allowing his eldest to apprentice, under the condition Sammy went with him. Dean had, of course, had no objections: Sammy had been under strict orders to stay close to his brother for years, from both John and Dean. Even his Dad thought he’d done a good job looking after the kid—and that said a lot. It brought Dean an insane amount of pride and sense of purpose. Sam was the one good thing he had, and the only thing he ever got right, and he was beginning to see a new form for their lives.

“Lookin’ good,” Bobby said, eyeing the engine Dean had reconstructed.

“I should do this professionally.”

“Few more years.”

Dean wiped his hands on a rag and took a deep breath. “You didn’t finish high-school, did you?”

He felt Bobby snap to attention. “Different time, son. Besides, when my Daddy bit it, he left the house and this business good to go.”

“But you don’t regret it?”

“You can’t leave school, kid,” he said, far more gentle than usual.

“I’ve already got the paperwork.”

“Well, rip it up. Jesus, you’re not even sixteen.”

“Soon as I am, I’m done. I’ve already looked at the GED: I could take it today and pass.”

“That ain’t the point, Dean. Where the hell you gonna find work?”

“John & Jay’s.”

Bobby paled slightly. “That—I recommended that as a part-time gig!”

“Jay understands.”

“Jay picks up strays, sure! That don’t mean you need to be one of ‘em!”

“It makes sense, Bobby. This way Sammy and me have a safety net. Dad has a few too many, I can have my own car and get us out of there.”

“I’ll help you get a car. And give you all the hours you can stand. And things get bad, you call and we’ll come get you.”

“I can provide for my own.”

“Damnit, Dean, don’t do this. Think of Sam if nothing else—what kind of example are you setting?”

“What kind of example am I setting now, snagging cash from the register when the cashier turns around, shoplifting his damn school supplies, and hustling pot-heads at poker for a few extra bucks?” 

Bobby rubbed his eyes. “You tell him about this?”

“Course not.” Dean kicked a wrench aside. “And don’t you either.”

“Christ, Dean. The whole damn county is going to hear that fight.”

“Shove it,” Dean snapped, because he knew, before he turned the corner, that Sam was coming. It was one of those brother things he prided himself on.

“Hi guys!” Sam had two brown bottles in hand. “Ellen said dinner’ll be ready in ten.” Dean smiled and accepted the rootbeer his brother held out to him. Bobby grunted at his.

“Thanks to you two idgits being around, I keep getting stuck on the wagon.”

“Could do worse things in life,” Dean said, taking a long drink and offering the bottle to Sam, who made a face but took a sip anyway.

“Well, you know. It’s important to set a good example.”

“I think making sacrifices for the people you care about _is_ setting a good example.”

“Sure, if you’re doing good by yourself while you make ‘em. I should cut back a bit.”

Sam looked between them two of them. “I feel like I just tuned in halfway through _Oprah_.”

“Never mind,” Bobby grunted, “I better go...check on dinner.”

Sam looked expectedly up at Dean, who ruffled his hair and grinned. “Cranky old man,” he said. “You got burnt a little, huh?”

“Really?” Sam tapped at his cheeks. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, you’re normally that pink-cheeked, Cinderella.”

“Jerk,” Sammy grinned. The kid was growing like a damn weed, getting taller and scrawnier by the day. Dean made a mental note to work some strength training into their normal sports routine, before he ended up with a six-foot bean pole as a brother.

Sam liked the salvage yard as much as Dean did. He spent the days reading outside, or exploring the creek and woods out back with one of Bobby’s stupid dogs, or helping Ellen cook or pull weeds in her garden. Dean only had a few stark memories of his own mother, and he deeply appreciated Ellen taking the time to give some mothering to his kid brother.

He wished, sorely, that John would come and join them on some of these days: wished his Dad was teaching him about carburetors and box wrenches and brake lines. But John hadn’t had a bad night since February, and that had to be enough.

“What’s Ellen cooking?”

“We made a tomato and mozzarella salad and garlic bread and steak.”

“You’re gonna make a great wife Sammy,” he said, offering the rootbeer back. Sam slugged him playfull in the ribs and Dean knuckled his brother’s floppy hair as they walked toward the house. “Are you gonna let me trim this shag anytime soon?”

“When you learn how to do it without putting a bowl over my head.”

“Awww, it’s cute! Better than the perm you had going as a rugrat.”

Sam scuffed the dirt lightly and handed the bottle back. “Did Mom have curly hair?” he asked. Dean kept his face carefully blank.

“Wavy,” he said, and took a long pull on his rootbeer. “Real long too.” Sam looked up at the house. Dean could already feel what was coming. “We’ve got a Dad, Sammy,” he snapped. “And yeah, it sucks we don’t have a Mom, but we’re a family. We stick together.”

“We’re due for another bad night, Dean. I hate waiting. I hate knowing it’s coming and not knowing if you’ll be alright at the end of it.”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine. And quit it. Dad’s done real good.”

Sammy opened his mouth to protest when the screen door swung open. “C’mon and wash up, boys. Supper’s on the table.” She smiled. Inside Dean could smell whiskey and beer and beef and Bobby’s aftershave. It was enough to let him ignore his pouting brother and pretend, for a little longer, that life was just fine fine fine.

***

  
After dinner, Dean and Sam did the dishes before Bobby ran them back to town. He’d slipped Dean an extra twenty, and it didn’t take much prodding on Dean’s part to convince Sam that a movie was in order. Afterward, they walked up to the high school field and drank Cokes, watching the last of the light leave the sky as the fireflies winked at one another and they good-naturedly argued over who spotted which constellation first.

_One day,_ Dean thought, as they got to their feet and started home, _we’ll live in homes where we never have to worry about how much Dad’s had to drink, or if it’s safe to go in the front door._

In the meantime, Dean knew he was doing right by leaving school. This time next year, he’d have a GED and a full-time job. Bobby had already been showing him how to drive, and he knew he’d help him swing a good deal on a used car. This time next year, if John wasn’t behaving, Dean could pack Sammy up and get him somewhere safe: Bobby and Ellen’s, a Motel, a friend’s. Or they’d just drive and crash in the car. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping his brother safe until they could move out. Then they could focus on really helping their Dad.

“Dean,” Sam stopped short. Dean’s focus followed his brother’s and felt his heart sink. Their Dad’s truck was parked sideways, partially on the lawn, a tell-tale sign that he’d driven under the influence.

“Okay,” Dean said, resting a hand between his brother’s bony shoulders. “Don’t panic. You know the drill. In we go, straight upstairs. You bunk in my room and I’ll make sure he’s in for the night.”

Sam stiffened against him, crossed his arms, and glared. “No.”

And although it surprised him, he’d known it was a longtime coming. Sammy was no longer the wide-eyed little kid who would go and hide in the closet because his big brother told him to. He knew what was happening, and, if he had a drop of Winchester DNA in his body, wouldn’t leave one of his own in a potentially dangerous situation.

“Sam, you gotta go with me on this. I know how to talk to him.”

“You had a black-eye at Christmas.”

“That was an accident.” Dean was fully prepared to argue Sam to safety. And for a second, he could see rage and frustration in Sam’s face, in the clench of his fists and narrowing of those damn huge eyes.

And then, out of nowhere, Sam flung himself against him and hugged him so hard Dean thought his ribs might crack.

“Let’s just go back to town and call Bobby,” he pleaded, face pressed into Dean’s stomach. “Please? We’ll call Bobby, and he can come and handle it. We were going to go over tomorrow anyway. Ellen won’t mind if we stay. I wouldn’t think you were a chicken or anything, Dean.”

“Sammy, we can’t just leave Dad.”

“Why _not_?”

“Because he’s our _Dad_.”

“He doesn’t act like it!”

Dean cupped the back of his brother’s head and pushed him gently away. “Look at me,” he said firmly.

“Sometimes, being a family means we gotta put up with each other’s crap, okay? Look after each other when things are bad.”

“But this is something he doesn’t have to _do_ , Dean!”

“He’s had a real hard time, Sam. It’s not right, what he does, but he gets overwhelmed. One day, you might need us to help you through a hard time, and we will.”

“My hard time won’t involve hurting you,” Sam said bitterly.

“Listen to me,” Dean softened his tone. “I’m gonna walk in first, make sure he’s downstairs, and then I want you to head straight up to my room. I’ll get him settled and be up straightaway, alright?” Sam went into full on Pound-Puppy mode, and Dean’s will wavered. “C’mon, bud. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“You _promised_ you’d teach me how to swim and help me better my time on a mile and teach me to drive and assistant-coach soccer next year. How’re you going to do that if I lose you?”

“You’re not gonna lose me.” Dean started to reach for his brother, only to be slammed in the gut as Sam threw himself against him once more. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”

“I know about stuff like this, Dean. We had to research something in the library's archive and I looked up child abuse. There were tons of articles. Kids end up dead all the time.”

“Not us,” Dean stroked Sam’s dark head. “I’ll take care of us.”

“ _Please_ let’s call Bobby.”

“You’re overreacting, Sammy. For all we know he’s already out, alright?” He squeezed the back of his brother’s neck. “Straight upstairs. You hear me? I’ll be there before you know it.”

Sam held on without answering for a minute before, finally, separating. Dean thumped him on the shoulder and unlocked the front door, hesitating long enough to hear the sound of banging at the back of the house. Sure John was downstairs, he nodded to the second floor, and Sam dutifully slipped past him and made his way quietly up into the darkened hallway.

Dean shut the front door a little louder than necessary. “Hey! Dad?” he called. John hated being startled.

“Here,” John groaned. Dean made sure his steps were loud enough to be heard as he went to the kitchen. A half-empty pizza box, scattered cans of Coors, and a rapidly vanishing bottle of Red Label were scattered across the kitchen table.

“Everything alright?” Dean asked with false cheer.

“Where were you?”

“Singers’, remember?”

“Come home...no one here. Can’t keep track of my own boys.” John stared hatefully at the bottle in front of him.

"Don't worry. Everything's alright. You have a rough day?"

“Your mother’s Uncle called. Never heard of him. Called wanting to know why he doesn’t know you kids. Like I was keeping you from family. Come home...no one here.”

“You could have come to Bobby’s,” Dean said, filling a tall glass with ice water.

“I shouldn’t _have_ to go to _Bobby’s_ ,” John spat. “You’re _not_ his!”

“You got me that work, remember?” Dean held out the glass. “You set it all up. I wouldn’t go if you hadn’t.”

John took the glass and took a few long sips. “M’sorry,” he mumbled. “I drank too much. Been long time...”

“It’s okay, you’re allowed.” Dean found the Aspirin bottle and poured out a few, offering them. John downed them with another long gulp of whiskey. “I didn’t know Mom had relatives left.”

“Campbells,” John muttered. “Assholes, all of ‘em.” He glared suddenly at Dean. “You act like her.”

“I don’t really remember her, Dad.”

“Still. You do. All ‘it’s alright, it’s okay, we’ll figure it out.’ Like you know more than me. Like you have a _clue_ what it’s like in my head!” John knocked the glass sideways, where it splattered Dean’s shirt, rolled off the table, and shattered on the tile.

“I’ll get it,” Dean said quickly. Not a good night. Not good at all...

He was reaching for the towels when John caught him by the back of the shirt and yanked, hard. “Where’s your brother?” he growled.

“He stayed at Bobby’s.”

“You let him out of your sight? Were you drinking tonight? Out with a girl?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then why the hell did you leave him? How many times do I have to tell you—you look after him!”

“I did, sir. All day. But we were going back early anyway and Sam was—”

Punches never hurt at first. Dean had learned this the hard way. It took almost a minute for the blood to seep back in and really bring the pain to full-bloom. He kept his eyes on the broken glass, taking care to stay away from it. Stitches weren’t an option: not without a boat-load of questions.

“Get up,” John growled. “Clean up your mess. I’m going to get my son.”

“Dad...you shouldn’t be driving. You said, you’ve had too much—”

“And whose fault is that?” John roared, slamming his fist into the wall. “You weren’t _here_!”

“I’m sorry—”

“Can you imagine what it’s like to come home and not be able to find your kids?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you imagine what it’s like to realize your wife is going to die? And you have to try and raise two boys on your own?”

“No, sir. You’ve done a very good job, sir.”

“I was. I was and then...” John’s voice cracked. Dean got to his feet as his Dad stomped away toward the living room. “I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

“Dad, please. It’s dangerous for you to drive!”

“Bobby isn’t going to _steal my boys_!”

“Sam’s not at Bobby’s!”

John whirled on him. Dean held out his hands, trying hard to see out of his still-ringing head. “Please, Dad. Just, listen to me—”

“You don’t know where your brother is?”

“I do, I—”

“What have I _told_ you? How many times do we go through this? You have _one job_ , Dean, that’s it! You look out for Sammy!”

Dean knew getting angry was the absolute worse thing to do, but he could feel his own temper revving up. “I am,” he said firmly. “And the best thing I can do for my brother is keep him away from you when you’re _drunk_.”

This time, Dean was ready. He’d been practicing sports and self-defense with Sammy for ages now, trying to keep them both ready and on guard enough to last a potential attack—they usually didn’t last long, not when John had overdone it. When John swung, Dean ducked right, and circled him, making use of John’s shaky balance to keep him turning. During the winter, Dean had avoided the worse of it by getting John dizzy enough to stop swinging.

He hadn’t counted on him using his feet though.

He took one knock to the stomach: that he could handle. But the second caught him in the temple and sent him against the wall. Dean couldn’t tell which side hurt worse, because he couldn’t even tell which side was up and which was down.

_Oh....no. No, no, not a concussion...shit... shit... shit...Sammy!_

John stumbled back, catching his own balance. “Why can’t you just do right by your family?” he bellowed.  
  
“M’sorry...sir...” Dean groaned, trying to sit up and failing. He could blood on his cheek, his temple, leaking from his nose.

“If you’d been where you were supposed to—” John slammed his fist into railing, breathing hard.

_Get it together, Dean! Sammy’s...Sammy’s..._

Dean caught a glimpse of his brother’s scuffed Nike’s, the worn jeans that used to be Dean’s. Before his stupid, scrambled brain could fully process what was happening, Sam had climbed on top of the railing and, right as John drew back his fist, took a flying leap toward his father. It would have been an awesome move, if it was anyone other than his little brother, barreling down on a man who wasn’t in his right mind.

“No!” Dean wailed, and Sam slammed into John’s back, nearly sending him on top of Dean.

“Sonofa—” their Dad gasped, but Sam wrapped his bony arms around John’s throat and squeezed. For a scrawny little kid, he had one hell of a death grip, and John’s face quickly reddened.

“Sammy! Don’t!” Dean pleaded. He tried to get to his feet but the room spun too violently, and he ended up slumped against the sofa once more, reaching desperately for his brother.

John got his younger son by the hair in one hand and the right arm in the other, peeled him off, and threw him across the room. Sam slammed against the wall, hit the floor, and went limp. Dean heard a scream of despair that took several seconds to register as his own, and then the room spun him right down into the dark.

***

  
“Dean. Dean. C’mon back, son. It’s alright.”

Dean opened his eyes and it came back to him in a flash: the yelling, the punches, the confessional, the rectory, Sam’s big eyes, running after him, necklace in hand...

“You remember me?”

Dean growled, clenched his hand into a fist, and swung, knocking the Priest flat on his ass.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, running up to him. “Stop it! Jim? Are you okay?”

“Just fine,” Jim mumbled.

“Sammy,” Dean groaned. “Get him out of here.”

“You have a concussion,” Sam scolded, pushing back on his brother’s shoulders as the room swayed. “And a few cracked ribs.”

“Your eye...” Dean gasped.

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine—it was black, and swollen, and the good one had clearly been crying. Dean rubbed his head and struggled to sit up, realizing he was wearing sweats and a flannel tee he hadn’t been wearing earlier. “The hell?” he gasped.

“You’re in your own room,” Sam assured him.

“How’d I get here?”

“Sam,” the Pastor said, getting to his feet. “He did a good job stopping your head wound from bleeding.”

“Where’s Dad?” Dean asked Sam.

“He took the truck. I wouldn’t have left you alone, Dean, but...” Sam’s voice hitched. Dean was trying very, very hard not to think of his kid brother coming to and dragging Dean up the stairs. And _dressing_ him.

“Sam,” Jim said, “could you please get me some more ice? And the Advil?” Sam nodded and took off out of the room. Jim stood a respectful distance away. “I assume that punch was a long time coming.”

“If you take him from me again, I’ll—”

“I’m not here to do anything but check your head-wound, Dean. Scout’s honor.”

“Spare me.”

“Dean.” His face hardened. “You know full well what my professional obligations are. What I had to do finding two kids in my Church.”

“I was no kid.”

“You’re _still_ a kid. Big mouthed, big headed, smart, tough, and forced to grow up too damn fast, but still a kid. Same as all those kids who I saw dying their guts falling out overseas. Same as the brother I buried when I wasn’t even twenty. That’s the kind of hurt I wanted to save you from.”

Dean crossed his arms and tried to look as mean as he could through his stupid, throbbing, headache. “Then stitch us and feed us and take us in when you have to. That’s all you can do, _Pastor_ , because I’m not leaving my Dad. He’s been through a war too. He lost a wife. He doesn’t deserve to lose his kids.”

“He _hurts_ his kids, Dean.”

“You don’t see him when he’s feeling good. He can be a great Dad. He just has bad nights. He’s sick.”

“You’re not helping him by pretending this behavior is okay.”

“I don’t need to you tell me how to take care of my family,” Dean growled. “If you want to hang around than you do what you have to. No more.”

“Do you know I’m risking my career, and possibly my freedom, to do this for you?” Jim said steadily. “Do you know what I’m _supposed_ to do when a child shows up with a black-eye and a bleeding head, telling me his brother is unconscious? It’s not grab a first-aid kit, I’ll tell you that.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because you could very well die in your sleep if I wasn’t, and that little boy who nearly kicked down my door can’t live without you, and you know it.”

“Shut it,” Dean mumbled, and seconds later they heard Sam’s feet on the stairs.”

“Here,” Sam gasped, breathing hard, and then crossed the room to hover next to his brother. “How ‘re you feeling?”

“Better than you have to be. Your eye looks like hell.”

“If you’d taken us back to Bobby’s neither _one_ of us would be here,” Sam snapped. Pastor Jim cleared his throat.

“Sam, do you have some clean washcloths?” Sam nodded and ducked off once more. “Dean—”

“You lecture me and I will blacken both your eyes.”

“I’m not,” he soothed. “I’m not. Promise. Listen—you’re going to be fine, and so is Sam. Physically. But I wanted to know if you would let me spend the night downstairs. I’d like to speak with your father. Man to man. I’m not going to try and get him to come to Jesus, and I’m not going to threaten him. But if I know my alcoholics, and I do, I know that there’s a cycle of guilt and misery he’ll be going through, and I might be able to help when he’s in the worst of it.”

Dean felt himself waver. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the Pastor’s game: he knew it, all too well. But he was dead-on. John always apologized, always promised sobriety, always took them to a game or out for pizza or for ice-cream after these nights. And Dean knew he meant it: the months without a binge were testimony to that. And then a trigger would come along and it would all go to hell.

“Fine,” he mumbled. Jim leaned forward and mumbled “pretend I’m working” just as Sam’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

“You’ll live,” he said loudly, prying up one of Dean’s eyelids. “Advil, rest, a few good meals, and you’ll be on your feet.” He smiled and took the washcloths from Sam. “Thanks. Mind dumping some ice in them?”

“Is he okay?” Sam asked, making an ice-pack out of the washcloths.

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He was out for a real long time. I got him up and into bed and changed his clothes and he still wouldn’t wake up.”

“His pulse is good, he’s coherent, his pupils are a little large, but I promise, a good rest and he’ll be back to normal. Now, I’d like you to put that ice on your own eye, go to your room and put on pajamas, and come back here for bed. Got it?”

Sam’s jaw dropped. He quickly set it, glanced from Dean to Jim, and then stomped out of the room, slamming the door as he went. Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“What can I say? He got my temper.”

“Your mother’s, I’d wager.” Dean’s breath hitched.

“You...knew our Mom?”

“We were in the same class.” Jim held out a few Advil and a glass of water. Dean took them both. “She was a spitfire for any age.”

“You didn’t tell us that.”

“You didn’t tell me your last name.”

Dean locked his still-dazed eyes on the Priest. “Are you going to report this?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“Are you going to tell Sam?”

“He already made my silence a condition of knowing your address.”

“Do you think you can help our Dad?”

“I’ll do my best by all of you.”

Dean sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “You can sleep on the couch.”

“I thereby nominate you for canonization.”

“’Saint Dean,’” Dean grinned. “Gotta ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jim smiled softly as Sam came padding back, dressed in pajamas, baseball bat in hand.

“Just in case,” was all he’d say, and sank onto the foot of Dean’s bed with his eyes on the door.

***

  
When Dean woke again, the room was lit only by a small desk-lamp. Sam was parked on the edge of the bed, a baseball bat across his lap, floppy bangs over his face. Dean stirred and poked his brother playfully with his foot.

“Hey,” he mumbled.

“You hurting?” Sam said dully.

“Nah. I’m good. What time is it?”

“A little after three.”

“Go to bed, bro.”

Sam didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at him. Dean nudged him again. “Hey. We’re good now. You can crash.”

Sam tossed a folded paper at him. “It was in your back pocket.”

Dean frowned, fumbled for it, and opened it up. _Damnit_. “Sammy—”

“You told me college was our way out of everything. You told me if I kept studying one day we’d be free. And now...this is your plan?”

“This is gonna be best, you’ll see—”

“You’re gonna be a _dropout_ , Dean!” Sam whirled on him, the bat still clenched between his shaking fingers.

“How’re you going to find work? What’s going to happen in twenty, thirty years, when you have a family? What kind of future is that?”

“Jay already said I can go on full-time. And I’ve got work at Bobby’s. Between the two, I’ll have enough for a car, Sam. I won’t have to steal anymore. I can save up and when you turn eighteen we can get our own place. And then we won’t have to worry about all this stuff Dad puts us through—”

“If you drop out, he’ll be putting us through it forever,” Sam said bitterly. “You’re letting him _win_ , Dean. You’re listening to all that garbage he tells you that all you’re good for is babysitting me!”

“Sammy, can you picture me behind a desk? In a suit and tie? Day after day? I’m already going nuts by third period. I need to be moving, _doing_ something. You really think I could be a stock broker? Or a lawyer? Or a CEO?”

“Yes.” Sam said, without missing a beat. “I think you’re smarter than you’ll ever know and I think if you didn’t have all this pressure on you to take care of me you wouldn’t hate school.”

Dean felt a familiar affection stir in his chest. Sam hadn’t outgrown his hero-worship: Dean secretly hoped he never would. “Kiddo—”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” Sam shouted, leaping to his feet, bat still in hand. “I’m not! I know what’s happening here! You’re letting him get inside your head. You’d never let me leave school, never!”

“We’re different, Sammy.”

“ _Sam_. My name is _Sam._ Sammy’s a baby name. I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Then quit throwing a tantrum. You’re exhausted. We’ll talk about this when you’ve slept and when my head doesn’t feel like it’s coming apart from the inside-out.”

Sam’s face fell. “You can’t have any more pills for awhile.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” Dean scooted back on the bed and patted the mattress beside him. “C’mon.”

“I’m not tired.” Sam turned back toward the door, bat still on his knees. Dean sat up, caught his brother by the shirt, and yanked him down next to him. Sam didn’t protest, but he pulled the bat in beside him like a stupid stuffed dog he’d slept with until the thing’s legs were near falling off.

“Let it go, Sam,” Dean murmured. “Pastor Jim’s right downstairs.”

“I’m not going to let him hurt you anymore. And I’m not going to hide upstairs anymore either, Dean. If this is what you want to do, than I’m doing it with you.”

“Sammy, what else _can_ we do?”

“We could go to Bobby and Ellen’s.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“You won’t even _try_.”

“Even at Bobby and Ellen’s, he’d still be our Dad. You don’t give up on blood, Sam.”

“Blood doesn’t make you family, Dean.”

Dean sighed. His head hurt. His ribs hurt. He just wanted to sleep, easy, for a night. No fear of money or losing Dad or Sammy. No jolting awake wondering if he’d sent a check to the electric company, or if Sam’s shoes were gonna hold another month. No jumping at a siren, thinking they might have finally caught up with Dean’s occasional illegal activities.

“One day,” Dean said, hand dropping to his brother’s hair and stroking softly, “we’ll in homes where we never have to worry about how much Dad’s had to drink, or if it’s safe to go in the front door. We’ll have dinner and watch football and movies and just hang out. We’ll have our work and our home and we’ll be safe, Sammy. We’ll be safe, and we’ll be happy. And it’ll still be you and me, just like now.”

Sam’s breath hitched. “I don’t want to lose you,” he pleaded. “I _can’t_ , Dean.”

“You’re not gonna lose me. I’ll be right there, no matter what. One day, we’re going to be completely safe, Sam. I promise.”

“That’s not a promise,” Sam snapped. “That’s a fairytale.”

“So? Doesn’t the 'once upon a time' always end with the 'happily ever after'?”

“Shutup, Dean.”

“We’re in the woods, you know. We’re up in the Beasts’ castle. We’re in the whale’s belly. We’re doing chores and singing show-tunes. We’re—”

“I _hate_ you,” Sam groaned, but his voice was laden with tears. Dean scooted down on the bed so he could pull his brother, and his bat, against his chest. It anchored him: _Sam_ anchored him. He always had.

And, Dean thought, smiling into his brother’s hair, whether the big geek was a kid or not, he never could resist a good bedtime story.

“Nighty, night, babycakes,” he murmured.

“Jerk,” Sam sighed, and released the bat so he could turn and press against his brother’s chest.

_One day,_ Dean thought, stroking Sammy’s head, _we’ll live in homes where we never have to worry about how much Dad’s had to drink, or if it’s safe to go in the front door. Sam will go to college and I’ll work at a garage and, whatever happens, we’ll see it through._

_Whatever happens, we’ll know we can see anything through._

Fairytale or not, Dean had always been good at telling stories. And when his brother curled against him and reminded him he was loved, a happy ending didn’t seem all that far out of their reach.


End file.
